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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23555437">struck dumb</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaliiwatching/pseuds/whaliiwatching'>whaliiwatching</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Donald-centric, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Mild Swearing, also i wrote this before s3 was out and then revised it A Lot, ambiguously post s2 cos i haven't seen s3, bc i cant help myself and neither can you, bg glomscrooge, don &amp; flinty are both trans, intensely self indulgent, introspective??? introspective, it's not very important but it's my fic and i get to choose the lgbt+ hcs, listen i love scrooge but he can be a jerk, this really wasnt meant to be so long, voice modulation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:28:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,795</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23555437</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaliiwatching/pseuds/whaliiwatching</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Donald has never really had a problem with his voice. Sure, it's annoying to repeat himself, but he likes his voice.</p><p>So, imagine his surprise when not everyone else shares that sentiment.</p><p>(aka, scrooge is a bit of a bastard and donald has trauma but everything ends up alright).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Donald Duck &amp; Family, Donald Duck &amp; Flintheart Glomgold, Donald Duck &amp; Scrooge McDuck, minor or background relationships</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>218</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>struck dumb</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>so this is the... fourth revision i've done for this fic. reviewers kept pointing me to how unfair parts of it were and i was like "damn u right i didn't notice that" so i tried to fix it a lot and this time i think it's finally Not Terrible lol</p><p>anyway. this was borne out of a desire for donald and glomgold interaction, because i love them both, and i think they're pretty similar in some key ways</p><p>what do people write in notes?? beats me. enjoy the fic</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Donald has always loved music. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never been very open about it, mostly because his uncle wasn’t the </span>
  <em>
    <span>most </span>
  </em>
  <span>supportive he could have been, and especially when Panchito and José left for better things. But music is one of his passions, alongside sailing. Only the boys really know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is it a stretch to say he likes his voice? Maybe. It’s hard to get people to understand, sometimes, but he likes the way he sounds. Like a broken record etched with secrets, or a dusty hallway in a hidden temple. Something worn and loved and sweet. When he was transitioning, his voice went from high and feminine and honestly rather annoying to this, and he took </span>
  <em>
    <span>and takes </span>
  </em>
  <span>so much comfort in it. It’s not overtly masculine but it fits him, it makes him feel like </span>
  <em>
    <span>Donald. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>likes</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, during Magica de Spell’s recent uprising (and isn’t that a bit of a redundant name? who else thinks so, show of hands?), when he swallowed the pill that changed his voice… it was kind of awful, when everyone acted so much better around him. He was understood in a way he’d rarely ever been before—literally—but it wasn’t him, not really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> So, of course, he coughed it up when the whole thing is over, and it’s back to his voice, his </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice and familiar </span>
  </em>
  <span>voice, and sign language Scrooge barely knows, and an extensive vocabulary he slows for their benefit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Moonvasion was worse. At first, it was fine, because he was still talking and could hear himself think, no matter the understanding of the aliens around him, and his voice has always had this grounding quality to it—he’s always liked talking, and it keeps him sane—but then they bound his bill and he was so, so silent. Like the surface of the moon should be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clamp dug red welts into the keratin. It was a kind of torture he was used to, but it still stung in every way it could, the only balm being the fact that Della is alive, she’s okay, likely with the boys. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He comes back via a gold bullet and lives for months on an island, eating sand and seawater and also normal water and nutrients because there are melons on the island, and he feels so alone that even the familiarity brought by his own vocal chords will hurt, so he makes a Mickey Melon. It helps him forget that he likes to sing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So the Moonvasion happens despite everything he tried, and he’s left silent for most of it. He plays no vital role; Never has, really. It’s okay. It’s par for the course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it bothers him that nobody listens. Della didn’t when she left, and still doesn’t now, because she’s always been reckless and uncompromising. Scrooge didn’t when he built the rocket, and doesn’t now, because he’s allergic to advice. Even the boys ignore him when they think they can get away with it. But when he’d had a voice—he was the center of attention, the clear voice in the storm, and it was a drug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to be heard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But not as much as he wants to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s Scrooge that gets fed up with him first, which is weird, because Donald was unconsciously betting on Della to snap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald has a huge vocabulary. When he was left behind on daring adventures or kidnapped during said daring adventures, he’d always have a book with him. Classics are the best, in his humble opinion—</span>
  <em>
    <span>20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Treasure Island, Tempest, Moby Dick</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Maybe there’s a theme. Either way, it stretches the bounds of his language, and he likes being able to communicate so broadly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s just used the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>sabulous</span>
  </em>
  <span>, in the context of a nice calming vacation the Duck-McDuck family could partake in, when his uncle glares at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh,” Donald says, unsure of how to react. “Sabulous means sandy or grit—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go to Gyro,” Scrooge says. “I cannot express to you how much I do not want to re-ask what you’re saying. Get him to make that pill again that makes you sound normal, then we’ll talk, lad.” Then Uncle Scrooge has the gall to snicker, like he’s said the funniest thing in the world. “Then we’ll talk. Good one, me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald stares at him. He’s received comments like this before, and from Scrooge no less. From Della quite a bit, though likely more teasing in nature (he can never quite tell). The boys never call him out on anything, but he’s had to repeat himself a lot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this is the first time Scrooge has asked him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>do something about it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald is prone to tantrums. This is the most notorious fact about him. He has a temper, and will go off at the slightest offense. But all those comments are flooding back, the cringes at his singing voice he got from even Panchito and José, the shrugged shoulders and careless exclusion of him from discussions, and it all seems so small in the face of his own affection for his voice, his music. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--- </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a symptom of having a speech impediment that people don’t often think of. When you don’t talk the same way everyone else does—maybe you have an accent, maybe you’re mute, maybe you speak a different language, maybe you’re just quiet—people get louder and duller to compensate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald is first and foremost a sailor, but he does know more science than Gyro Gearloose thinks, and would like to not have everything dumbed-down and in that slow, patronizing voice the tall chicken has adopted for this conversation, thank you </span>
  <em>
    <span>not at all.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t drawl like that, it’s unbecoming,” Donald says, but his voice is as not </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal </span>
  </em>
  <span>as always, and Gyro ignores him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The interaction is long and boring and could have been wrapped up very quickly, but Donald suffers through at least forty-five minutes of </span>
  <em>
    <span>no, I can’t make another voice modulator, I’m very busy and have no spare funds, do you understand, am I getting through to you? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d use the modulator made for him back in his Duck Avenger days, but it’s kind of gone forever probably. And the device from the Magica de Spell incident was buried under gold—not even Scrooge could find it, as motivated as he’d be to make his nephew </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal.</span>
  </em>
  <span> So they’re dead ends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But so is Gearloose (which is also, admittedly, an unsettling name). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that one visit to the lab, Donald puts into effect Plan B, but Fenton the kind intern isn’t around so Plan B of very nicely asking him to make one falls apart before initiation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald paces through town. It’s not circular or repetitive, but it has an air of deep, nebulous thinking around it, so it’s kind of pacing. He wants to ramble about his process, to hear the warmth of his own voice—he feels uprooted, lost, alone in the city—and tries to think of other places to go. Fethry pops up in his mind as an option, because he’s a scientist, right? But his cousin’s a fan of marine biology, not weird futuristic vocal tech. He could ask for… money from Uncle Scrooge, which makes him sick. Scrooge would be the exact type to make him work for something he doesn’t even want.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So. Does Donald know any emotionally distant engineers willing to work way below their pay grade?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turns out, Donald knows as he turns a very important corner in the city, yes! He does. And it’s a perfect solution.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That is a lie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is in no way a perfect solution. Scrooge, if he finds out, will absolutely destroy Donald for consorting with an enemy, and then destroy said enemy for being the one Donald went to in the first place, because his uncle is the poster boy of pettiness. That said with as much fondness as it can be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re Donald Duck.” Zan Owlson is surprised to find him here, eyes wide and confused. “Scrooge’s nephew. What—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need your help,” Donald interrupts, but he’s not even talking to her. His attention is on Flintheart Glomgold, dwarfed by a huge chair in this bland conference room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Scuse me, what?” Glomgold says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald points to his throat in frustration. “I need tech. And emotional distance, but mostly tech, and you’re the best option, so please help me change my voice?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s silence. Glomgold blinks. Owlson shuffles her papers and stands. “I’ll… give you two a moment?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold glances at her. Nods. She starts for the door, then turns and points an accusing finger at her boss. “No kidnapping him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No promises,” Glomgold says cheekily, and Zan is gone with a huff. Donald knows he won’t be kidnapped; it’s like rule five or six of messing with Scrooge. Donald isn’t worth enough to be bait.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sailor shifts on his flippers. Should he sit down, or ask for help with a foot out the door? What are the best tactics about doing business with Glomgold? Is it a deal-with-the-devil type of thing, or genies and loopholes? Or—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want?” Glomgold asks, rising from his own chair. So that solves that problem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A voice changer,” Donald says slowly. Glomgold is notoriously dumb, so maybe Gearloose’s drawl will work on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A voice changer, yeah,” Glomgold says in the same voice, with a twinge of sarcasm. “I meant more why. And why come to me? Your uncle is the </span>
  <em>
    <span>richest duck in the world.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ah, trademark bitterness. Donald wants to laugh at the old fight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead he waves his arms uselessly. How exactly does he tell his uncle’s rival why? Especially because he doesn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> himself, he’s here to appease Scrooge, because his voice isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Can’t I just pay you to make one? The answers don’t matter to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold shrugs, a smile curving his beak. “Jus’ curious, lad. Fair enough. I’ll make you a voice changer.” There’s some kind of sentence after that period, something like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I have nothing better to do.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Donald wonders at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you. I’ll pay you. Um, I have like six dollars now, but—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can figure that out later, lad.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lad,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Donald notices. “Here, Owlson and I’ll take you to the lab. We can work out specifics now, if you’d like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold has always been one of Donald’s preferred adversaries on his adventures. He’s rather easily defeatable and his comical antics and obsession with money reminds him of his own uncle. This side of him, more one-on-one, nobody to impress—less prideful and shouty and fake-Scottish—might make him Donald’s actual favorite. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald nods and Glomgold and he leave the room for the lab. Owlson follows them, obviously stunned and possibly proud that Glomgold hasn’t kidnapped his archnemesis’s nephew, but probably still apprehensive. But the stout businessduck keeps his word and they find the lab on a lower floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s much nicer than Donald had been expecting. Furnished with expensive equipment and shiny tabletops and blueprints that Glomgold immediately fumbles to put away, Donald is taken back to his time as a superhero, talking with Uno in a nowhere-near-as-scrupulous laboratory…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“—it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> impressive, I told you, Owlson,” Glomgold is saying, closing the last drawer on his blueprints. The owl shrugs in assent. Donald thinks she should give it a bit more praise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I figured out why you’re not as rich as Unca Scrooge,” Donald says, gazing at everything just within his grasp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold’s eyes snap to his. “Why’s that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This place is—gorgeous. Fastidious.” Does Glomgold know those words?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fake-Scottish duck gives an approving nod. “Precisely!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald looks back at him and rubs one thumb over the other. “So… what now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold blanches. Finds a stool and swivels to the desk, pulls out a notepad and flips to a page over halfway in. He writes </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don Duck Commission</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the top, and it’s spelled right. “You tell me what you’d like. I give you an estimate price and wait time. You get the thing, the transaction ends, and you gush to your uncle about how awesome his greatest rival’s tech is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald takes the other stool and crosses his legs on top of it. Zan Owlson is still a few yards away, idly inspecting tools, but her focus is obviously on the interaction. Donald doesn’t mind too much; she’s just waiting for Glomgold to slip up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just like that?” The tiny feathers on Donald’s thumb are mussed up now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm,” Glomgold says. “Now. When you say voice changer, what do you actually mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean a voice changer. Voice modulator. Something that makes it go…</span>
  <em>
    <span> normal.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal </span>
  </em>
  <span>mean?” Glomgold asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not… </span>
  <em>
    <span>this,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Donald bites out. God, he doesn’t want to be here.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For Scrooge. For being</span>
  </em>
  <span> normal.</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh. Alright. What kind of device?” Glomgold’s impatience shows through the incessant clicking of his pencil, which is mechanical and is only dispensing lead. He pushes it back in and starts over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald huffs out a surprised laugh. “Uh, a pill, I guess?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold writes it down, then crosses it out just as quickly. “It’d dissolve in your stomach after a day, or leave you entirely in the same time frame. What other kinds of aids did you have in mind?” He scribbles down something else and this time his pencil doesn’t strike across the page. It’s funny and kind of nice how professional he’s being about it, Donald decides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something small,” Donald says after a moment. “Um. Not an implant if I can avoid it, but generally unnoticeable.” No need to constantly remind himself about it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This isn’t for me,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he chastises himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pencil moves again, this time in light, quick strokes, a drawing. It disappears under the harsh scribble of failure, and Glomgold turns a page and retries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not an implant, you say? So, removable?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Donald picks up a swiss army knife. Its blade is broken, but the tiny screwdriver is intact, and he twists it between his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold looks up at him, something clever gleaming in his eyes. “I just might have an idea.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Donald goes home six dollars and a good bit of happiness lighter. His modulator will be done in less than a week—it’s going to be a finicky thing to make, Glomgold told him, and the conversion from his voice to </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal </span>
  </em>
  <span>will be hard to tailor as well, but Glomgold is the best so it’ll be fine—and nothing can make him feel better now, probably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except talking again. If it’s removable, he won’t lose it, lose his music. But it feels like he’s on a timer, and he only has a week before it’s gone forever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets home, walks into the manor where Scrooge and Webby are crushing the boys at a dusty 1980s version of the word game </span>
  <em>
    <span>Probe,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and says </span>
  <em>
    <span>hello </span>
  </em>
  <span>as he settles next to his uncle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Unca,” Dewey said, his eyes never leaving Scrooge’s upturned letter cards. Scrooge sends Donald a look over his eye, obviously bothered by Donald’s complete lack of change. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald looks over the letters already uncovered.  He can tell that the rest of the day will be spent selectively mute and wondering how after so many years still nobody can understand him. He wants to growl and stomp and be mad and be</span>
  <em>
    <span> heard with his own voice— </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello,” Scrooge says eventually, letting it go. He draws a prompt card and reads it out. “'Take an additional turn.’ Dewey, do you have… a t?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go fish,” Dewey replies with a lofty grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That isn’t how the game works. How are you winning?” Donald asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Repeat that?” Webby takes a moment to look at him, and Donald pretends she just wasn’t paying attention, even if that lie stings as much as the truth. He does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, it’s all me,” Webby laughs when she understands. “I read the dictionary when I was eight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A kid after my own heart,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Donald thinks. Of course, every kid knows the way to his heart simply by existing in a non-genocidal manner, but this is irrelevant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the word?” Donald whispers to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Bagpipes,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> She whispers back, grinning. “They’ll never get it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald surveys the cards again. His nephews have uncovered a, e, and s out of  bagpipes, and their own word reveals </span>
  <em>
    <span> c-card-b-card-e-b. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s probably </span>
  <em>
    <span>o</span>
  </em>
  <span> next,” Donald suggests to his uncle, who looks blankly at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?” The old duck shakes his head and glances back to the cards lying face down before them. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald wants to scream. “Never mind.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. Speak louder, nephew.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald gets up and leaves. Nobody really notices.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Letting your anger out can be cathartic. In Donald’s case, it’s a 90 percent chance he’ll feel better after destroying some punching bag or unfortunate tree. But today, Donald has exhaustion in his sleeves and just wants to forget it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he lies in his hammock on the houseboat and shifts around for a while. The sunlight moves into orange and purple and he sleeps alone in the swaying wooden bowl, silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is not catharsis but it is helpful. He imagines himself normal. With that stranger’s voice in his throat, backed against his teeth, taking away his music—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’ll tell everyone about his voice modulator when it’s finished. No need to get their hopes up if it explodes or Glomgold gets bored or anything before he can use it, and it’ll be a nice surprise for them if none of those things happen first. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spends the next day working on the houseboat and cooking so Beakley can take a little break. He drums up raspberry pancakes for breakfast, of which Webby has never had before but excitedly proclaims to be her new favorite food, and of which Scrooge stubbornly doesn’t admit to missing. Lunch is sandwiches specific to each family member. He does all of this with as little talking as he can get away with, and it feels like holding down fire with a burning shield. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hits his thumb with a hammer while nailing down a plank on the boat and lets loose a string of curses. It sounds melodic to him, and he starts to smile, but—no, it’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Scrooge wants him to be normal. Why doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>want himself to be normal? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shut up and you won’t miss it so much.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So. The day after, he goes to the lab again. Zan questions his intent but guides him down after he says he just wants a status update.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold is actually down there working on it when he arrives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah! Donald! Welcome!” The older duck slides off his stool and waddles over. He isn’t clad in stereotypical Scottish attire today; he’s wearing brown overalls and a yellow shirt, and his fake beard is darker and looks more coarse and real than usual. His accent is still there, annoyingly overt as usual.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Donald says, giving a small wave. “Just, um… checking up, I guess.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quiet, quiet. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Course,” Glomgold says. “It’s coming along nicely! And I’m glad you came because I need something from you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald freezes. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold is puttering around his station now, collecting papers and filing them around to give the illusion of neatness. “Just a tooth mold. If this retainer is to fit, I need a model.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. That stuff. Donald remembers the paste from his almost-braces days (almost because scrooge is a penny pincher and braces are totally unnecessary). “Alright then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold mixes the paste together and pushes it into two dental impression trays. Donald presses them to his teeth and </span>
  <em>
    <span>God,</span>
  </em>
  <span> this mix is just as horrible as his ten-year-old self remembers. He waits for a minute, trying to focus on Glomgold chatting aimlessly about his progress, and tries not to vomit at the taste of the solidifying concoction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually they turn hard enough and Donald all but spits out the trays. He’s almost glad to note that his teeth are rather straight (haha), and it’s odd to be proud of something like that, but counterpoint, Donald is deprived of self-confidence so let him have it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, lad,” Glomgold says, and he sets it aside to solidify fully. Donald swivels a stool over to the workplace, far enough away not to impede, and peers at the tiny network of circuits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So… how does it work?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold grins at the table and begins explaining every mechanism in detail. Donald loses a lot of it, but understands the basics. Auto-generated voice, a bit like Gyro’s pill, wired to detect vocal vibrations as early as starting to speak them, and it’s a sort of conversion and it’s all a bit convoluted but Donald finds himself enjoying the lecture, if not the subject.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s enjoying spending time in Glomgold’s company. Isn’t that odd? But he doesn’t recoil from the idea—it’s not as if he has many friends he can do this with otherwise. What’s one more dangerous alliance? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something that’s been squirming under Donald’s skin for a bit is the design, though. It’s—an </span>
  <em>
    <span>interesting </span>
  </em>
  <span>piece of tech. Definitely not </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“How did you think this up?” He asks, laying his elbows on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold turns it around in his fingers. He doesn’t have big hands, but it’s still surprising how gently he handles it. “I considered using it for the accent.”</span>
  <em>
    <span> And</span>
  </em>
  <span> he freely implies his Scottish persona to be fake, which Donald finds weird. This is a weird side of Flintheart Glomgold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, he’s never made sense before, why start now. “So why didn’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cloud passes over the sun outside, and the lab darkens momentarily. Glomgold doesn’t meet his eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jus—I bang my head too much. You know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald’s brows furrow. “I kinda don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold’s eyes flit toward one of his desk drawers, the one he’d stuffed blueprints into the other day. Donald follows his gaze and finds nothing. And then they’re watching each other again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Twenty questions,” Donald blurts, hands reaching to fiddle with his uniform buttons. “Back and forth. For blackmail,” He adds, a lilt to the edge of his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold smiles at that. It’s a tiny, unnatural thing, like a ghost. “For blackmail.” He picks up the swiss and uses the tiny screwdriver to sew a rattling bolt in place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You go first,” Donald says, after the silence grows awkward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A metal scraping sound. Donald stares at lab equipment. Glomgold holds his phone up and reads aloud: “Ask them for one weird fact about them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “I… my eyes glow in the dark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>The stout duck tears his gaze away from the phone to Donald, as if hoping the overhead lights will flicker and he’ll get to see. “How?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mission gone wrong, kinda,” Donald says with a wave of his hand. “I was out being—out adventuring, and I drank the wrong something or other, and now they glow blue. I’m designated flashlight, sometimes, though it’s too weak for that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The machine (and it’s barely that, it could probably fit inside a thimble) starts beeping and Glomgold twists the screwdriver. “Undoubtedly weird. Your turn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald grits his teeth. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Weird, weird, weird. Not— </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Right, okay. Why do you like sharks so much?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If life had been a bit weirder, I might’ve been a marine biologist. They’re just fascinating. Like the basking shark? Basically a mouth with a tail. It’s adorable.” Glomgold uses one hand to bring up a picture on his phone, while the other holds the voice modulator still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald laughs. “The fish goes</span>
  <em>
    <span> blawp.”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Zactly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The ocean is amazing. Oh, you’d love my cousin, he’s a marine biologist, I think. He likes krill.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Krill are cool,” Glomgold concedes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>… and it’s quiet again. Donald’s leg sways in midair as he thinks. Then— “Oh, it’s your turn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The questions article makes a reappearance. “What is their dream career?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um. It’s not nor—it’s weird.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold looks up. “Not weirder than your current job, I’d say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My  current  job is unemployment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing weirder than nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Superhero, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve changed my mind. There is something weirder than nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald’s temper rears a bit (a bit </span>
  <em>
    <span>late, </span>
  </em>
  <span>isn’t it). “People have done it before! Gizmoduck, that new purple guy… Darkwing, him, and the first of them all, the Duck Avenger!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold grins. “Being a villain’s more fun!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald scoffs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“You’d</span>
  </em>
  <span> say that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would, thank you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald hums. “Why do you pretend to be Scottish?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The question catches the bearded duck off guard. “I’m—not—that—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You practically said it yourself a minute ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t! I’m—Glomgold is a historically Scottish name—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, he’s like a child. “It really isn’t—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, you’ve whittled me down, I’m not Scottish!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald pauses. “Huh. I didn’t think you’d say it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold’s hands still, framed around the tiny voice changer. “Don’t tell your uncle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, how do I phrase this nicely—he knows.  Everyone knows.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A black-iris glare cuts through to him and Donald guesses that maybe that wasn’t the perfect moment for a joke (no matter its truth).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Different question.” The villain says it so quietly that Donald thinks it might have been plastic on plastic at first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um…” Donald tries to think of something, eager as Glomgold is to escape the ensuing stagnance of conversation, but nothing really leaves the not-Scottish area. “What… was… your first name? Before Glomgold?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flintheart turns on him in a snap. “If I tell you, you tell me your middle name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, God, tough pick. I’ll take it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The short duck’s grimace matches Donald’s own internal suffering. “Duch—Duke Baloney.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Baloney. King Spam. Emperor Sandwich Salami. Lord of the Packaged Meat</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Donald feels the peals of laughter rise up in him, and tries his best to smother it, but a little bubble bursts out, and it’s music! Melody! God, he likes his laugh. Still, Flintheart’s glare twists. “Okay, okay, fair," Donald chuckles. “My middle name is Fauntleroy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>so sorry,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Flintheart says, though his own laugh escapes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald tries to fix his kid-silencing glare on the villain, but it proves ineffective, and he just dissolves into laughter. Laughing is sweet and ariose and why would anyone want him to lose such a sonorous part of himself? “That’s okay—hah—it’s my fault.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flintheart grins, but the comment confuses him. “Huh? How?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Fuck, back out, how—he didn’t mean to let that slip. “Um. It. I—” Donald flounders, fingers coming together and twisting. He plucks a feather from the back of his hand and winces, trying to find a way  out— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You picked the name—oh, are you trans?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He knows what that means?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Donald swallows thickly and nods. Goosebumps rise on his skin; he might be in real danger. But Flintheart—he hadn’t said it accusingly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. Same.” Flintheart pulls a drawer open and yanks out a wire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What—really?”  Donald gapes at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aye.” The villain looks so unruffled. Like they’re discussing the weather! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald blinks down at his feet. Huh. There’s no  big deal  here. As if being trans hasn’t caused him a million more obstacles than his life would’ve had otherwise, as if he hadn’t struggled so much before fourteen, as if his uncle’s rival could just admit to being like him and continue tinkering with a device that would make him more </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal,</span>
  </em>
  <span> like it’s really not a big deal. A surprised laugh knocks out of his throat and he grins. It’s not a big deal. For once, it’s not a big deal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, I have a real question,” Flintheart says, and Donald realizes that at some point, he’d stopped thinking of the villain as </span>
  <em>
    <span>Glomgold.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Shoot,” Donald says, unable to wrestle the smile off his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are those kids yours?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ice in his gut quickly cools Donald’s last chuckles. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They don’t have your caution. Or speech patterns. And I’ve never heard them call you </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dad."</span>
  </em>
  <span>  He’s innocently curious, but Donald feels something prickle in his palms. He’s never felt good about this subject, not quite, not anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re… not. They’re my nephews.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you raised them.” It’s not a question. Glomgold slides the voice modulator to the side and opens a laptop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”  Not anymore.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not your turn for a question.” Acid creeps into Donald’s words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold raises one bushy eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Donald watches him open up a coding app and pluck keys with excruciating slowness. Della does that, types like a snail, despite her efficiency with airplane controls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you actually like fighting Uncle Scrooge?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glomgold considers this. Connects the laptop and the device together with his drawer wire. His eyes flit from one thing to another, and his jaw is tight, and  oh, he’s nervous.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hesitating? Anxious? Red under the feathers ofyour face?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Donald can’t finish the question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t have to. Glomgold speaks through clenched teeth, all thorny and defensive: “How would you like it if I questioned </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> entire reason for being?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald blinks. “You kind of did,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry.” Glomgold sounds more reluctant than sincere, like a teacher had sternly told him to apologize. Donald gets the sense that their conversation is over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he thinks back—wait. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Entire reason for being</span>
  </em>
  <span> is unexpected. He pulls at his gold buttons and thinks about asking further, but something makes him pause. Maybe ten years of learning when to probe at your kids’ problems drummed it into him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, and leaves it at that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--- </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Donald departs soon after on a better note. Turns out he shares a common interest with the villain—the ocean. None of his family particularly like it, except for Fethry (but fethry doesn’t exactly keep up with modern communication), and it’s nice to talk to someone who shares his regard for the element. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even if that someone is Flintheart Glomgold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He returns to the manor thinking. Scrooge and company are out on some adventure or other, of which Donald opted to stay behind for, still bitter about the apparent communication barrier. He knows they’ll be safe with Scrooge and—and Della.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> Anyway.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>(ignoring donald’s insecurity about being replaced by his long-lost sister—)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald settles into his hammock on the houseboat and thinks back to the last few questions in their weird back-and-forth game. Flintheart had avoided the question about Scrooge, right after Donald had avoided the question about his nephews, which is an odd parallel, because Donald’s boys are the point of his existence, and Flintheart admitted the same thing about his rival.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>threatened.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Donald turns, holding his blanket closer to himself as he stares out the window. What does it mean? The stout duck obviously likes going up against Scrooge, or he would, y’know, not do it. Though, he’s notoriously dull, so maybe he didn’t think of that. Donald considers this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The realization hits him square in the heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flintheart isn’t quite </span>
  <em>
    <span>dumb. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’s good with technology and, somehow, sharp-toothed marine predators. He didn’t trip up on his words much, except when he tried to cover up a lie, and he didn’t speak like a child. He makes up insane, overcomplicated schemes, but they work in theory, if everything didn’t go wrong for him from the outset. He’d never asked for Donald to repeat something, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald had pressed onto him an unwarranted assumption he himself hates; the idea that he’s stupid because he’s perceived to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The duck turns again in his hammock again and winces into the fabric. Flintheart isn’t stupid and Donald had thought so, even though so many people think he’s stupid too, and Donald is so… sorry. Sympathetic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and Flintheart are similar, Donald realizes. They both have insanely bad luck. They’re both seeking Scrooge’s attention. They’re both trans and love the sea and don’t know their place in the world, not quite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is the original topic. Donald has circled back to the beginning: Flintheart admitting that Scrooge is the center of his universe, basically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s all theatrics, what they do to each other. Flintheart cooks up a ridiculous plot and drags Scrooge into it, and they both play the parts of rival and hero and sometimes reluctant allies against a bigger evil until it’s time to go home. Is Flintheart aware of that? Is Scrooge?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s still light outside. Donald flips onto his stomach and flaps around for his phone. He dials Scrooge’s number without even thinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One ring. Two rings. Three, four. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“H’lo?”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Unca Scrooge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Donald? Hi! What’s got you up? Isn’t it some dreadful hour back home?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald lifts the phone away from his face and taps speaker. “It’s, like, five P.M.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> A grunt. One of his boys—Dewey, Donald knows intrinsically—calls out for Webby. He tries to remember the details of their adventure… something about a rabbit and tape, and gold-lined numbers. Steampunk-y. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to ask you something, Unca.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence. A hum. Then,</span>
  <em>
    <span> “Can’t it wait?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d rather it not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What is it then?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Scrooge’s cane connects with something on the other line and the wooden thunk rattles through the speaker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald opens his mouth and pauses. He hadn’t planned this far. What does he ask? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, did you know your sworn rival considers you the center of his universe?</span>
  </em>
  <span> No way. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Have you ever thought about the clichéness of your connection to Glomgold?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Maybe, but that would shut down the conversation before it starts. Something safer, then, broader. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Laddie, you gotta speak sometime.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I thought you didn’t like it when I spoke, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Donald nearly bites out. But passive-aggressive jabs will only make Unca mad, so. “What are your thoughts on Flintheart Glomgold?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause on Scrooge’s end this time. Louie asks who he’s talking to in the background and Scrooge doesn’t reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Um. He’s an annoying, harebrained tryhard. Why?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been talking to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge groans. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Have you, now? Don’t go down your sister’s path there.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Della yells in the background somewhere, probably in retaliation. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Why were you havin’ a blather with that brat?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald feels an odd surge of protectiveness over the stout duck. “Hey. He’s actually, seriously not that bad. I was just wondering, because it kinda seems like you’re just… I dunno, acting? Like, oh, wow, Glomgold has another scheme going, better slip into Condescending Hero mode until something backfires and we can go for ice cream. Y’know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I didn’t catch any of that.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You—” A curl of dark anger whispers through Donald’s body. He tries his best to curb it, and speaks slowly. “You play a part with Flintheart. What do you really think of him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge sighs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Let’s talk about this at home, eh? We’ll be back in, oh, three, four hours.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Good enough. “Okay. Will you need the med kit?” Donald sits up, feet swinging off the hammock so he can find the main parlor and wait for them. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Not this time, I think.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re sure.” He trusts his Unca. “Love you. Stay safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“We will, nephew.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Scrooge hangs up and Donald is left with only the serene push of pool waves on his boat as company.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Five hours later, the kids are tucked in and given their forehead kisses and are out like lights, and Della is much the same. Scrooge is still awake, though he looks as if he’ll collapse any moment now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald turns up the electric fireplace and nestles into the couch with an old gray blanket around his shoulders. Scrooge is already there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is an old dance. No matter the confusing feelings Donald has about what Scrooge said and what Scrooge wants him to be, he misses his Unca’s hugs, their cuddles. Donald leans on him and Scrooge fiddles with the sailor’s hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why d’you wanna know about Flintheart?” Scrooge sounds so uncharacteristically unguarded that Donald has to remind himself this isn’t a dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He… said something odd? Yesterday?” It’s past midnight. Donald stares into the fire and turns this whole thing over in his head. Something important needs to be fixed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um. What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald chooses to ignore that, as well as the bristling response ready in his throat. “It got me thinking,” He says, using his toddler voice. “You and him are actors. Why do you play hero with him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t talk so slowly, it’s patronizing,” Scrooge says almost absently. Donald wants to scream at the double standard (triple standard?) but this is not the time or place—not so soft a night, not so dark a room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well.” Scrooge sighs and tilts his head back to meet the cushions. He’d abandoned his top hat a while ago. “Flinty’s an idiot. You’ve noticed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He isn’t,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Donald’s mind replies, but outwardly he agrees, for the sake of this delicate conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s an idiot. I like to think I keep him happy by playing around with him, y’know? It’s fun on my end, too. Symbiotic stupidity keeping us both out of boredom.” Scrooge rubs Donald’s pointer finger and keeps his eyes trained on the mantle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It does make him happy,” Donald says. “He told me as much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” That's the actual shock in his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kind of. It was heavily implied.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald sighs and knocks on air, the sign for  yes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge nods pensively. His brows are drawn together in thought. He grips his nephew’s hand and finally looks at him. “What did he say exactly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald stares up at him, voice thick. Should he say? It seemed like a private thing, a paraplexia, a secret. A part of him, though, compels him to share, and he feels for a moment like there’s something he can fix. Something he can </span>
  <em>
    <span>do. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“He said you were the entire reason he was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald lays his head on his Unca’s shoulder, breaking eye contact. It’s nice to be close to him again, after all the pain of the last eleven years, or the pain of just the past few days. “Just… was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That…” Scrooge’s chin drops to rest on Donald’s head. “That’s odd.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe. Makes sense, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge snorts derisively. “It does?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Course.” Donald sorts through small words to fit into his sentences, but comes up kind of empty-handed. “He relies on you for emotional security. You’re a constant in his life and he appreciates your participation, and he doesn’t really want you dead.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>If you were, the game would be over, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Donald thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>But he’d have lost more than the game.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge, of course, just blinks in confusion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And isn’t that just the last </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> straw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald sits up and leaves the comfort of the blanket and his uncle’s side. His shoulders rise and his face flushes, and his attempts to reign himself in are lax. He spins around on his heel, eyes like ice alighting on Scrooge. “This is why I talk to him! He knows what I’m fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>saying!”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge blanches. “We—we understand you fine, Donnie—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You  don’t! Not even with the simplest things! You want me to—” </span>
  <em>
    <span>To be normal,</span>
  </em>
  <span> that fucking word again. There’s an essay building in Donald’s throat but he manages to stuff it down. His therapist, what did he say… Breathe and walk away, was it? Good advice as any. And he may be mad at his uncle, but he doesn’t want to inflict any lasting damage. (that might be a lie. in an hour, though, it might not.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going out,” Donald says. His anger is still boiling under his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge stares helplessly after him. A few seconds pass, and he nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald leaves without another word, and stumbles down the manor’s driveway in the dark, searching for anyone else.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He finds himself at Flintheart’s company building once again. It’s got to be near morning by now, but Donald forgot his phone in the parlor. He tries the door and is surprised when it gives way under his press. The elevator is also working, which gives him hope that Flintheart will be here. He presses the button for the lab and when the doors open, the light blaring from the room is enough to make him flinch into the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Donald?” That bright Scottish accent catches his ear. Donald blinks his eyes open and nods. His fingers are still twitching from the half-row with Scrooge. “What’re you here for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald pushes off of the wall and into the lab. Flintheart stares after him, then hurries to be by his side. “Got angry with Scrooge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” Flintheart says, sounding genuinely surprised. “Thought you two were thick as thieves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really,” Donald mutters and goes quiet. That’s what he should do, always, apparently, be quiet and still and never contribute and—he doesn’t want to ask, he doesn’t, but Scrooge will just be mad if he stays like this, stays not </span>
  <span>normal</span>
  <span> that word again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>not that word again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“When’s the modulator going to be done?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dammit. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nearly is now.” Flintheart darts to a desk and picks up a retainer case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sailor gapes. “It’s been three days.” Not even that!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flintheart shrugs. “I work fast. And I was bored.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So why not go after Scrooge again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flintheart winks, but it’s the inexperienced kind, where he has to open his mouth to make one eye close. “Can’t tell you that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald finds himself laughing. “‘Course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can finish it now, if you’d like. ‘Was just going over some other things before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. I’d rather be here than there, right now.” When did it become easy to talk to his uncle’s rival? Some part of him rejoices at the rebellion, but another part actually likes the old duck. He finds a chair and curls up in it, watching Flintheart screw on a metal plate to the surface of the retainer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some time passes. It’s still not morning, but the sky is lighter. Flintheart sets down his swiss screwdriver and lifts the retainer, studying it in a desk light, then grins. “I did it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hands the device over, brimming with energy. Donald takes it gently and turns it around in his hands. It’s a metal Hawley retainer, the modulator in the pink plastic mold that’ll sit on the roof of his mouth. It doesn’t look special at all. He glances up. “Can I try it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flintheart bounces on his feet. “Yes!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hm. Suspiciously excited. Donald flips the retainer over, looking for a bomb or a bill clamp or something, but it’s too small to hide those. And—Flintheart isn’t in the business to seriously injure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts it on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing happens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon, talk. It’s a voice modulator,” Flintheart prompts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What should I say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, God.</span>
  </em>
  <span> His </span>
  <em>
    <span>voice. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that—is that me?” Donald asks, looking down as if he can see his own voice in his throat. “Do I sound like that? That’s not me.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s not me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s you,” Flintheart says. He looks less bubbly than he did just seconds prior, but there’s still a crooked smile on his face. Donald doesn’t think that smile can ever be </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> crooked. “It’s… you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So this—this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Donald, kind of spooked, pushes the retainer out with his tongue. It falls into his hands. “Different from this,” He says, and it is. The rasp is back. He slides the retainer in again and tries to go slower. “Different.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Different. Not you. Not me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it okay?” Flintheart sits back in his own chair. “How will your—your family react?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald shrugs. “They’ll probably be ecstatic.” Oh, God, that’s not him. It sounds like—it feels like possession. “I… can probably sing better like this,” he says, trying to distract himself, but the words only make him feel worse. His music, his music… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm,” Flintheart says, and offers nothing else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not as happy as you just were,” Donald points out. “Why?” Is there something wrong with his new voice? Is it not </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal </span>
  </em>
  <span>enough? Is there still something left of his speech impediment, or is it him, is he the problem, was he all along? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Flintheart says, and Donald wants to cry. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal. He’s normal. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“How—” he stifles the flinch that rises in his body at the intruder, the one he asked for, the stranger in his voice. “How much?” Did he even bring any money? Where’s his wallet?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flintheart spins around in his chair. “Eh. Twenty bucks’ll be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Twenty.” ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Bout as much as it’s worth, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Donald thinks bitterly. Agh. Flintheart made this just for him, cheap as anything, and Scrooge will be happy. He’ll—it’s good, this is a good thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Discount for a friend of an enemy,” Flintheart says, his grin back full-force. And then, quieter, “Your payment was company.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald stares at him. That’s the actual softest thing he’s ever heard the other duck say. (except for the ‘reason for being’ comment, but can anything top that?)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Donald says, and can’t quite contain his shudder. He takes out the retainer and then skips right onto the topic, because he has just a moment of freedom before he needs to put it on again, to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “One or two visits isn’t much, and I don’t like to be indebted. I could… I could be your mole, for your escapades with Unca Scrooge.” He doesn’t want to lose Flintheart’s friendship just yet. Maybe not at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That catches Flintheart’s attention. He glances up at the sailor. “You’d do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. It’d be nice to get a little revenge,” Donald admits. </span>
  <em>
    <span>For everything. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I like you, laddie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald beams, but something nudges at his awareness at the same time. Something obvious about Flintheart and his accent. Donald wants to follow the mystery, to pretend he forgot about the modulator in his hand, but he. He needs to talk to Scrooge. Get this over with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nudges the thing back into his mouth and finds just barely twenty dollars in the inside pocket. It’s his emergency twenty, but he can get another. He’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> broke (he so is).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flintheart stashes the money in his overalls’ pocket and waves him off, neither parting with another word, which is just fine to Donald. He leaves feeling so, so much heavier.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s not ready to go back to the manor, though, so he doesn’t. Instead, there’s a coffee shop that doubles as an ice cream parlor Scrooge frequents that’s a few blocks away, and Donald has enough left for a cone or a juicebox. When he gets there, it’s barely seven A.M., and the cold sweets part of the coffeeshop is just opening. His favorite cashier always gives him veteran discounts, so he slowly walks back to the manor with his retainer in its case and a cone of peanut butter ice cream in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly because he doesn’t want to face his family quite yet. And also so he doesn’t trip and spill his treat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches the door at eight thirty, ice cream long gone. The kids’ll be awake, even Louie, and Della will be running around with them, and Scrooge will be mumbling into his tea. And they’ll all be able to hear him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He toys with the idea of not using it yet. It’s tucked in his mouth, but the case (which has a sticker of a smiling coffee cup on it that the shop was giving out) is still in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’ll be like newly-dyed hair,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he reasons with himself. He’ll be aware of it constantly, and it’s not something he can just put away… unless he takes the retainer out, pretends it doesn’t exist, which is… tempting, but counterproductive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Master Donald.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald flinches and tightens his grip on the box. It clicks shut at the action. “Duckworth! Hi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ghost dog starts at his new vocals. His elbows, forever crossed behind his back, tense up and he fumbles. “What—what happened to—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got it... fixed,” Donald mutters. “Do you like it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—what?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ugh. This isn’t going well. “Where are the boys?” They’ll like it better. They did back during Magica. Or—he should find Scrooge, and maybe his fantasy of his uncle being Shocked and Horrified at the change will play out, and he can go back to his music. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Playing around,” Duckworth says faintly, still staring. Donald nods and walks through him into the parlor to find his kids.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Webby falls down from the ceiling, landing a superhero pose on the carpet. She jumps to her feet, all crackling electricity and pink bows, and grins. “Hi, Uncle Donald! What’s up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald puts his hands in his pockets and tries to look nonchalant. Here goes nothing. “Not much, Webs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she gapes, too. “Wh—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s n—it’s fixed,” hee says before she can ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>what,</span>
  </em>
  <span> before she can ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>why.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “D’you like it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” her eyes dart around nervously. “Um, guys? Get down here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald looks up. A ceiling vent is open above her. From it peer Louie and Huey. “Huh?” Louie calls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Comin’ through!” Dewey yells. He crashes beside Webby and hops up, dusting his sleeves off. “Oh, hey, Unca!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald is checking him for injuries before he can finish speaking. “Are you both okay? Why were you in the vents?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dewey gasps and steps back. “What? Who—what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald sighs. This is getting annoying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s goin’ on down there?” That’s Louie. The hoodie-clad tween dangles from the vent opening and Dewey opens his arms to catch him. They both end up tumbling to the ground, but Louie’s laughing, so he isn’t hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Amateurs,” Huey mutters, voice echoing from the metal tunnels. He finds an upright landing but wobbles on his feet, arms propelling to keep himself up. “What’s happening?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Webby hasn’t looked away from Donald the whole time. “Um.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not much,” The sailor repeats, hands itching to constrict, to let off some kind of anxious energy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their reaction isn’t what he was expecting. Huey is stock-still. Dewey taps his foot, a sign of him processing. But Louie—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you and why are you pretending to be our uncle?” The green duckling screeches, settling into a fighting pose immediately. His back foot is off by a few inches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something cracks in Donald’s chest. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> your uncle,” He protests. “I promise. It’s just me, but my voice is… normal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got it</span>
  <em>
    <span> fixed?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Huey sounds outraged. Donald silently shares his anger, but no—he’s normal, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s fixed. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s a good thing. This is the wrong time and the wrong thing to be stubborn about but this is for Uncle Scrooge, not… not the boys. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Agh. Donald hates this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dewey growls. “You’re a fake.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not!” What to do, what to do— “I can prove it. Um. I can—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spell my name,” Louie says, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s defiant. Donald finds himself proud, against his better judgment. “My </span>
  <em>
    <span>full </span>
  </em>
  <span>name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, my boy.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “L-L-E-W-E-L-L-Y-N. I named you, Louie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t believe you.” Dewey sniffles. Oh, no, no, his boy is starting to cry. “Our Unca wouldn’t just…  do that! He liked his voice!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I do! I did! </span>
  </em>
  <span>He grits his teeth, wanting to agree, wanting to explain, but he can’t get angry at his kid. Count to ten. Breathe and walk away. He goes through the numbers in his head, visibly restraining himself. “Scrooge couldn’t understand me. It’s a practical change.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not possible,” Huey says slowly. He’s clearly mad too, screamed just a moment ago, but now he’s mad in that quiet way that can aim right into Donald’s heart. “Not without months of practice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is,” Donald says, hoping the resignation is apparent. “Remember Magica? Gyro’s Barksian thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Webby </span>
  <em>
    <span>shrieks.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gyro’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> fault?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s Scrooge’s, it’s mine.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “No,” he sighs. Agh, what does he do? This isn’t what he planned. He was hoping they’d agree with Scrooge, that their acceptance would help </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> accept this, but they—Scrooge—ugh. “Scrooge wanted this more than anyone. Doesn’t it… help? That I’m intelligible?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is quiet. The boys look at each other. They’re deciding something, but Donald doesn’t know what. Webby meets eyes with Huey, and he nods. She sighs and steps forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was it your decision?” She asks, and Donald blinks. “If you didn’t like your voice, it should be your choice to change it.” Her voice is trembling. She gestures to the boys. “And if so, we can… get used to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dammit. This is the question he was fighting to avoid. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is it his choice</span>
  </em>
  <span> if Scrooge wanted him to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal,</span>
  </em>
  <span> if it only makes Donald worse to wear it, worse for wear? This stranger’s voice speaking for him, this person he doesn’t know will answer either way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he lies. “It was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The triplets stumble into his embrace and he hugs them all. Webby doesn’t join in. She looks on edge. Donald smiles softly at her and she tries to return it, but he can’t figure out why it’s different because she buries her face into his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’ll be okay. It’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>become </span>
  </em>
  <span>his decision to wear it, one day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It has to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The kids race off again when they’ve collected themselves, so Donald is left alone with a stomach begging for something other than ice cream. He finds the kitchen and pops a cinnamon roll in the microwave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s in the middle of eating it when Scrooge comes in, looking for tea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The older duck catches his nephew’s eye and winces. “Oh. Hi, Donald.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald, mid-chew, doesn’t reply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Silent treatment, eh?” Scrooge mutters, clicking on the kettle. Donald swallows and fits in his retainer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge’s shoulders heave in a sigh and he turns around to face Donald. “Look, son, I’m sorry. I don’t—quite know what happened yesterday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Donald says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge’s foot slips on the tile. He hits the floor, and Donald is up immediately to check for injuries, but the duck is only watching him, as if he’d not quite believed his ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You okay?” Donald asks awkwardly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Scrooge says. “Am I hallucinating?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I, um. You wanted me to fix it, ‘cos you couldn’t understand me? This is what… what </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal </span>
  </em>
  <span>me sounds like.” He doesn’t actually know if all this thing does is filter his speech, but if he tries hard enough, he can pretend it’s still some semblance of himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge grabs the counter edge and heaves himself up. Donald goes to help him, but gets a cane to the fingers for his trouble. “How’d you do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How many times will he do this? “Tech. Like Gyro’s modulator, from the Magica thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t I say already?” Donald huffs. “And wouldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>know best?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge is silent. The kettle rings and he turns around and makes his tea with robotic movements. Donald watches him, careful. As soon as his uncle dunks the tea bag in, he whips around and points a finger at Donald’s chest. “You went to Glomgold!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um. Yes.” How did he—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s why you were asking before!” Scrooge slaps his forehead, as if annoyed he hadn’t figured it out sooner. “Oh, boy, you’ve got some horrible thing in your bill there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald’s shoulders rise. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“You</span>
  </em>
  <span> wanted this! You told me to get some fucking fix—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t want you to go to </span>
  <em>
    <span>him!”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Scrooge bares his teeth. “Spit it out, whatever it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Donald hits the counter with closed fists. His plate rattles. He can’t remember to recite the numbers. “Uncle Scrooge, you told me to be normal! All you’ve ever wanted for me since Della and I were </span>
  <em>
    <span>five</span>
  </em>
  <span> was for me to be like you. I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>you. I wanted to be heard the way I was! Don’t you understand what that feels like?” Idiot. Him or Scrooge, it doesn’t matter. “Of course you don’t, you’re Scrooge McDuck. Well, let me tell you, it</span>
  <em>
    <span> sucks.</span>
  </em>
  <span> But I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>me.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>And now he doesn’t even have a claim on himself. Donald grits his teeth, but the last of his words force their way through anyway. “It’s not like I could go to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you.’’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He storms away. Let Scrooge swallow those words alone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--- </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beakley reacts the same as Duckworth, but accepts it quicker than the kids did. She seems to accept his façade of liking the change wholeheartedly; She had been most grateful for his voice change during Magica. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That means the last person in the house is Della.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes most of the day for her to appear. Donald goes about his day, repairing the houseboat, reading, helping the kids when they need it (though it doesn’t happen much, and not for long. wonder why). Della doesn’t come by until it’s nearly dinner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you do to yourself?” Della asks, soon as she hears him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald is calmer than the other times; there’s not much use getting angry anymore. “Scrooge asked me to change it. Glomgold built it for hi—for me for twenty… no, twenty-six bucks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Twenty dollars?” Scrooge throws down his cane. “I don’t believe it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s here too. He and Della had been talking when Donald came in, probably about him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Donnie,” Della says, ignoring their uncle. “You can’t just</span>
  <em>
    <span> do</span>
  </em>
  <span> that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” Donald throws his hands up. “He asked me to! It’s practical! I spent money on it! I’m—” Why does this hurt so much? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were fine before!” Della copies his rising temper, metal foot scraping the ground. It’s the way she rears up for a fight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, apparently I wasn’t! But I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal</span>
  </em>
  <span> now, why is everyone acting like this is worse? I thought this would be better! Why aren’t you happy?” Because nobody’s been happy since he came back. They said they would try, but everyone’s avoiding him. Even the kids, who said they’d try, don’t want to get close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Della screams through clenched teeth. “Because you’re not you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know! I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>this isn’t me but it has to be!” He can’t even hear himself. The music is garbled and scratchy even with the modulator, and he can’t understand himself, and everything is crumbling. He curls up on himself, fighting with her even though they’re on the same side. She can’t understand. She doesn’t, she doesn’t understand </span>
  <em>
    <span>lost </span>
  </em>
  <span>like this. The metal foot, that wasn’t integral to her, but she’d want her limb back if it made her </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Undoubtedly. Scrooge knows that, so he opted to fix the thing he could—Donald’s music. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At some point they’d gotten closer, eyes locked, ready to spar out their differences. Scrooge tries to come between them, but Della pushes his cane away. “It doesn’t ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be. You’re not Donnie, you sound like a stranger. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Donnie</span>
  </em>
  <span> would know that if he wasn’t understood, then everyone else would just have to keep up with him, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> isn’t the problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald steps back. Shock rattles down his spine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She does understand. How does she… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Della breathes hard through her nostrils and shakes her head, then walks forward, hand out. “Give it here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stares at her palm. The retainer digs into his gums, scratches his teeth, turns his music discordant, and he wants to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances at Scrooge. The older duck’s face is unreadable. He stands apart from them, his cane gripped tightly in his hands. Why does he have that? Just for the image? Is it his weapon of choice? Donald knows he doesn’t need it to walk. If he did, would any of this have happened?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, it doesn’t matter. This isn’t Scrooge’s decision to make. It’s not his music to silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald takes it out and gives Della the retainer case. She can do what she wants with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge stares at her clenched fist, which roughly holds the plastic thing. After a few minutes, when it’s apparent Donald won’t take it back, he lets down his guard a little. Scrooge glances at Donald. “I…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t get to choose this for me,” Donald says to him. “It’s not your life. It’s not your </span>
  <em>
    <span>struggle.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Donald,” Della says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops. When she says his name, he knows everything is different.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Donald,” She says again. “How long has this been a problem?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which part?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s more than one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald nods. “I’m… I’m not listened to, at all, in this family. I don’t know if that’s because you undervalue me, and I’m not fighting that perception, or if it’s because you really can't understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sometimes we can’t,” Della says gently. “Not your fault. What’s the other?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This feels so much more fragile, somehow. Fighting is something Donald is good at. It’s rough and wild and mistakes don’t cost so much. The wrong word, the wrong stance and he could fall through the floor, be stuck like this, Scrooge—</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. Let him go. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“So make us!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge. Donald’s eyes, trained on his sister, dart to his uncle for the briefest moment. He won’t be caught by him again. Scrooge takes a tentative step forward, then another, when he sees Donald isn’t going to shout and spit again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens his bill, and children interrupt him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Donald!” Dewey screams, crashing into his uncle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald finds himself on his back yet again, but Dewey barely has the strength of an ant colony, so he’s not wary of them like he is of his older family members now. Dewey is instead on his knees (they’re digging into donald’s stomach, which, ow), with Louie and Huey flanking him. Webby storms by, glares at Scrooge and Della, and says, “I’m going outside. If you try to run away, I will tackle you.” She disappears around the bend and it seems as though everyone takes her words to heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please turn that thing off!” Dewey pleads, and Donald is surprised to find that his nephew’s eyes are glossy. “Please! I don’t know who’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>talking</span>
  </em>
  <span> when you say anything!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Huey pushes Dewey off and the nephews help Donald to his feet. Della is standing to the side still, looking uncomfortable and worried, and Scrooge is hugging his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uncle Donald,” Huey says. “You can’t—you need to talk to us before you do something like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Donald says. “I didn’t think of you boys. I didn’t want to do it, I promise.” Scrooge makes a pained sound at his side, but Donald ignores him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t?” Louie whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The most introverted of his boys looks up at him with weary eyes. They’re a little bloodshot. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This isn’t the first time he’s cried today, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Donald realizes with a protective (and guilty) jolt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Louie says, “It wasn’t your choice?” a little louder. He glances down, then away, then up again, like he’s looking for words, and there is quiet in the room. Then, quietly, but with the strength of an ocean, “That was the voice that sang us lullabies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I lied,” Donald says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Louie shakes his head. “Not your fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanted—” Donald says, and all the fight drains out of him, just like that. “I didn’t want to change. I never wanted to be normal. I’m sorry—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not the one who should be apologizing,” Della hisses. Her gaze is on Scrooge, who looks more and more ashamed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Serves him right, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Donald thinks, even as he feels so bad for his unca.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald slumps. Lands on the ground and curls up. The kids fall to his side and lean close to him—there’s Webby, even. Everything hurts, his throat is closing up, Donald wants to cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, laddie,” Scrooge says, arms winding around Donald as he sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t get rid of it immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, it’s horrible, and he hates it a lot. But some part of him, the part that listened to Scrooge without a fight three days ago, convinces him that it might yet serve its purpose. It might aid an adventure or maybe Scrooge will change his mind on Donald being his usual musical self and demand he use it or something. But a day or two passes without its existence being acknowledged, and Donald finds he doesn’t want to listen to that part anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d never </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted </span>
  </em>
  <span>to change. He’d just wanted to be understood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few days after </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Scrooge approaches him privately. To apologize for everything. It’s good to hear it. As much as Donald wants him to suffer just a little longer, he is kind, and forgives him on the basis that he never try to change what someone is again. Judging from the old duck’s contrite expression, he won’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge promises to listen. He starts talking to Donald a lot, and pays attention, noting each inflection, learning his language. Donald repeats himself less and less. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald goes over it in therapy, too, determined to learn about himself. Why his voice is important to him, why Scrooge had wanted to leave it behind, why he went along with it. It’s a hard few sessions, and he is tasked with asking his family why they like his music. His voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Funny, that he’s the one taking a moment to listen now; And his family has so many reasons for him to keep this little part of him, this beautiful thing. The boys grew up with his scratchy raspy tongue—so did Della, so did Scrooge, even. It represents his unbending will, his determination, and it even has practical uses. His voice is part of him. Not his identity, but not a disability. People learn to listen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So the underlying issue is his own self worth, which is partially the fault of his upbringing (i.e. scrooge’s complete lack of subtlety regarding favoritism), blah blah blah. Donald is just really really glad he sounds like himself again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His family, his therapist, he himself has a point. If nobody can understand him, they better try harder. He’s not the issue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--- </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s still a mystery under his skin, though. Flintheart’s confession, the oddity of his accent, the unhappiness he’d kept low when the device proved itself. It’d gone to the backburner for Donald’s own adventure, but now that that’s been resolved (mostly. these things take time), the mystery returns to the forefront.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe Webby would like to try her hand at solving it. Donald entertains the thought but dissuades that, too. This is more personal. So, instead of Webby, he asks if Scrooge will come with him to see Flintheart. To make sure he isn’t kidnapped, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald walks right into the building, waves at Zan, and leads an astounded Scrooge to the lab. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flintheart is at one of the desks, moving a light to shine on a piece of old paper. He looks up at the elevator ding, and his face lights up at Donald. Then he spots Scrooge and falls out of his chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ahh! Donald, why’d you bring </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> over?” Flintheart scrambles to get up, one hand clutching at his wayward beanie. “What’s goin’ on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge grimaces. “This’ll be a long visit, eh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald elbows him in the side. “Be nice.” He takes the retainer box out of his pocket and sets it on the desk. “This works really really well. But I’m not going to use it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flintheart stares at the box. Then, surprisingly, he sags into his chair in relief. “Oh, good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sailor glances back at his uncle, still standing just outside the elevator. An idea sparks in the back of his mind. “Good?” He asks, nudging his theory along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chair jerks at Flintheart’s sudden straightening. “Um.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Donald knows. “You felt less alone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge inches forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stout duck’s eyes widen, then crease in distrust. “How did you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your accent. You were slipping from Scottish to your original one.” Donald is brushing secrets away from himself. He’s letting himself be honest, vulnerable, and to Flintheart Glomgold, no less. It feels less wrong than it should. “We’re alike. You changed your voice to fit who you thought you should be. I… was asked to do that, too; Thought it was for the best. But we’re both wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not—” Flintheart flails, trying to save face in front of Scrooge, who’s watching with interest. The shorter duck takes a shaky breath and tries to cover it up with an arm. “I’m not wrong. I’m Flintheart Glomgold!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly,” Donald says. “You’re not just a—a villainous Scrooge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge sniffs. “He’s not even that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Unca.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, sorry.” Scrooge walks around his nephew and comes to stand by Glomgold, who is maybe having a panic attack in his chair. “Hey. Hey, Flinty, you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I am!” Flintheart yells. “I’m Glomgold! I’m always alright!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge gives Donald a look, but Donald has, in essence, five kids. He shoots back one of his own and his uncle readily complies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay, Flinty,” Scrooge says. (interesting nickname, donald observes.) He rubs his rival’s arm in an attempt to calm him down. It works, kind of. Flintheart’s knees are bunched up to his chest, but they relax and drop down as his breath slows. “It’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If you’d told Donald that he, at thirty-six, would be helping his uncle’s rival through an identity crisis of sorts, he’d have shaken his head and called you crazy. Even now, he still kind of wants to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going back,” Flintheart growls to the floor. “I can’t. I won’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words remind Donald of his own rationalizations for the modulator. That it was essential to his being to be understood, more than it was to be himself, and all that cheesy jazz. But when Donald—no, call it by name—when Scrooge had forced Donald to fit the wrong puzzle pieces, he’d only ended up breaking the picture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flintheart has been trying to fit for so long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not going back,” Scrooge says, startling both the other ducks. “You’re going forward. Reclaiming who you were isn't what you're doing—finding who you are now is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stout duck doesn’t say anything. He threads his fingers through his beard and glares at the ground. Scrooge looks at Donald, brow creased, and Donald nods. Flintheart needs… time alone, probably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrooge goes back to the elevator. Donald signs the number for the ground floor, then</span>
  <em>
    <span> I’ll follow you.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  His uncle disappears behind metal doors and the sailor turns back to Flintheart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why’re you still here?” He asks plaintively. His eyes are wary, set on Donald, as if anticipating a fist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To say thank you. And that you need help,” Donald says. “That… was a lot. Too much, probably. But I need you to know, before I go—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, go,” Flintheart says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Donald gives him a wry smile. “I’m going to come back. And help you find yourself. Sound good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flintheart is quiet. Donald wonders about him, about who he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>before, </span>
  </em>
  <span>about who he will be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, soft and wavering, uncertain: “I’d like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re damaged. Years of misunderstanding are crumbling under their combined weight. And Donald is healing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re staying my mole, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I look forward to it.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>it's been nearly a year since i first wrote this fic, and i haven't been part of the fandom in like eight or nine months. weird huh</p><p>i love donald and his voice to pieces so i wanted to make it more obvious that he likes it as much as i do, and that scrooge is at blame here, because he's a bully lol</p><p>hope this is better than it used to be. peace ✌️</p></blockquote></div></div>
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